Mystery's Daughter
by myfictionreality
Summary: My name is Skylar. I only have a name because I gave myself one. Why, you ask? Because I'm a mystery...Skylar Doe is a fifteen year old girl who has never had a family. When strange things start happening and she finds herself at Camp Half-Blood, can she accept this new family? And why hasn't she been claimed like every other demigod her age? T for possible language and violence.


**Hey! Gwen here :) this is a new fanfic i'm starting to write-**

**it's mostly OC but you will see some of your favorite demigods in here!**

**Please remember to review!**

_She was born in the dead of night_

_When the traitorous goddess hid from fright_

_The moon and stars danced in the sky_

_Chanting this child was cursed_

_By a bow's arrow she'll die_

_Forbidden love, burdened with shame_

_A child born without a name_

_Only when the tribes in the stars sing their battle cry_

_The Daughter of The Hunt will rise_

Chapter 1

My name is Skylar. I only have a name because I gave myself one. Why, you ask? Because I'm a mystery. Whoever my parents are didn't bother with a name, a note, or any form of explanation. They just left me as a newborn on the side of the road wrapped in a blanket.

I still have that blanket. I've managed to hold onto it, even while being thrown into foster homes, to orphanages, and to more foster homes. It's plain white with silver thread embroidered around the edges. It's the only connection I have to my mother, and it means the world to me, even though I hate her. I hate her because she abandoned me, never gave me a chance. Because of her I don't know my own name, let alone my parents.

The teasing on the bus is worse today. I'm used to it- kids laughing and calling me names because I'm the mystery orphan without parents or even a solid home. They know nothing about me, but I guess they're so insecure with themselves that they find it acceptable to pick on me, of all people. I can't pretend what they say doesn't hurt me, it does, but it's all things I already know. I will never have a permanent home; I will never have the latest fashion trends, or even a real birthday. I'm assuming the day I was found, December 19th, 1997, is my real birthday, but who knows? I could have been left there on the street for days.

I don't know basic things about myself that most kids know.

"I heard that Mr. Garrington let you off the hook for the family tree project," says Tiffany Peters, Queen Bee. "Isn't it just _tragic _that you have no idea who your parents are…or are you just looking for attention?"

"Yea, _Skylar_. Is that even your name?" Her obnoxious boyfriend, Jared, chimes in. I clench my fists, hiding the tears that are threatening to form.

"I…" I begin to fight back, but before I can, Tiffany shrieks with laughter.

"The little freak is actually saying something! Let's applaud her for her bravery. The girl can talk after all!"

Thankfully my stop is next. I get up out of my seat and hurry down the aisle to get off the school bus, but a foot trips me halfway there. I get up as fast as I can, and hide my face. I won't let them see me cry.

When I get to my foster home, Mrs. Hartley is waiting with a plate full of fresh chocolate chip cookies. I have been living here for about five months, since February. It's the longest I've stayed with one family, and I love it here. Teasing at school I can deal with, especially with a loving family to come home to. Lately I've been hoping that the Hartley's will adopt me permanently before the year is out.

Mrs. Hartley and I make small talk over cookies for a while. I haven't told her about the Tiffany and Jared and all the torture at school. I still have a hard time trusting her; even though she's the closest person to a mother I've had my whole life.

Let's just say I've had some very bad experiences with foster homes.

Emilia gets home on the middle school bus forty minutes later. We go upstairs to her room and talk about everything that went on in school. I said I had a hard time trusting Mrs. Hartley, but Emilia is easier to let in, maybe because she's a kid. She's a year younger than me, in eighth grade. I tell her about everything on the bus today.

"Tiffany is just jealous," she assures me. "If you haven't noticed, you're _way_ prettier than her. Girls like her will do anything to make sure that they feel superior."

I scoff when she says I'm pretty. I mean, my hair is probably the only thing about me that can be defined as _pretty._ It's long, shiny and black as night. I refuse to cut it, so it reaches my waist. I almost always wear it in a braid to the side. People have always complimented my hair, but never called me pretty. My skin is pale as moonlight and my eyes are icy blue. I'm average height and lean; built like a bird.

"But it doesn't matter, because everything she says is true," my voice wavers. "I don't have anything. Not even a name."

"Sky," Emilia says, hugging me close. "That's your name. And you have us now."

I'm not sure how long this will last.

After I was found on the side of a highway in Williamsburg, VA, I was immediately taken to the hospital and treated for hypothermia, but along with the many other mysteries attached to my birth, the doctors were astounded to find that I wasn't even cold after being left out in the cold December night.

The people at the orphanage searched high and low, but found no possible parents for the "mystery baby". I was given the name Jane Doe; for no one had any idea of who I was or where I came from. No one at St. John's Home for Unfortunate Children called me Jane, however. I was always known as "girl over there" or "the mystery kid". When I reached the age of five, I decided to give myself a name. I don't remember why, but I chose to call myself Skylar. Skylar Doe.

I was juggled in between foster homes. No one wanted to take care of me, a dyslexic, ADHD mystery girl. I never felt wanted. Even in peaceful, seemingly loving homes, the parents never cared about me as much as they did their real kids and no one ever adopted me.

I learned to fend for myself when I came across particularly abusive foster families. I spent a couple nights on the streets of Washington D.C. after a drunk Mr. Breeden beat me six months ago. I had refused to give him more alcohol and he spiraled into how ungrateful and awful I was.

"I know why no one has claimed you mystery kid," he sneered. "Your parents didn't want you because you're worth_ nothing_." He slapped me and left red welts on my cheeks. My stomach hurt for days after he punched me.

I escaped through the back door and settled near a restaurant after walking for who knows how long. I camped out behind the flowerpots next to the window. As the night went on, I watched happy families walk in and have elaborate dinners with warm soup and cake. That's when I realized it was December 19th, the day I was found as a baby: My "birthday".

I watched a girl about my age enter the restaurant with her parents. At the end of the meal, the waiter brought out a towering birthday cake. As she closed her eyes and blew out the candle that said "14" on it, I made a wish too. I wished for a real birthday someday surrounded by friends and family with a big delicious cake. The image of the happy family was burned in my mind as I drifted off to sleep that night.

I woke to the angry owner kicking and shooing me. The whole day I wandered aimlessly through D.C. That was the day I truly realized: No one wanted me. I thought that I could die right there and no one would even stop to help.

I didn't die, but I did the next best thing. After a while without food or water in the frigid December air, I collapsed on the sidewalk outside a library. I woke up in an empty hospital room. The doctors released me, and I was sent back to St. John's Home for Unfortunate Children, where they shipped me off to yet another foster home, the Hartley's.

Here, unlike the other foster homes, I feel like I mean something. Mr. and Mrs. Hartley love me and accept me, despite my mysterious upbringing. A part of me wants to stop worrying and just enjoy the time I have with them, but another part of me knows that all good things come to an end.

I'm in school the next day, trying to ignore the crude whispering behind me. It's science class, and we have an interesting substitute teacher, Ms. Drake. Her hair puffs out like she's been struck by lightning multiple times. Her clothes are mis-matched and crazy. What really catches my eye is the dark blue pearl ring on her right hand. It's so huge it almost takes up her whole finger.

"Class," Ms. Drake says in an unnaturally squeaky voice. "Today we will be performing a lab, so get in your pairs." I sigh when I look up at the board and see that I will have to work with Tiffany.

Fitting safety goggles around my head, I join Tiffany at a lab station. We're supposed to be mixing substances until the mixture turns a specific shade of blue. I don't understand the purpose of this lab, because we're studying Newton's Laws of Physics with the normal science teacher. "You're seriously wearing those?" Tiffany asks incredulously at the sight of my goggles.

"Yea," I say. "It's protocol. You can't not wear them."

"Whatever," Tiffany rolls her eyes and I realize that this project will be an individual thing; as in my partner will end up doing zero percent of the work.

The class goes on, and our mixture has turned mustard yellow. Tiffany is agonizing; standing there picking her nails. Occasionally she'll glance over at me and tell me that I'm doing it all wrong.

Just when I think I've had enough with this project, Ms. Drake stops at our table. "You girls seem to be working well together," she says. I wonder if she's blind. "But it seems like your mixture is not the correct color." Maybe not. "Let me add some of this," she says, pouring a substance from a bottle I don't remember seeing on the table or in the procedure. I don't know where she got it.

"Excuse me," I begin to tell Ms. Drake that the bottle is not what we're supposed to be using. But then our beaker explodes.


End file.
